From a Different Standpoint
by LaSuen
Summary: During an investigation Sherlock gets enjailed after being charged for murder. John attempts to help him any possible way he can, yet all the evidence points to Sherlock. One-shot. Case-fic. Bromance.


**Title**: From a Different Standpoint (С разных ракурсов)

**Author**: kate1521

**Translator**: lasuen

**Beta**: bitchinblackframedglasses

**Characters**: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mycroft

**Genre**: case-fic, bromance

**Rating**: PG-13

**Disclaimer**: We do not own anything.

**Summary**: During an investigation Sherlock gets enjailed after being charged for murder. John attempts to help him any possible way he can, yet all the evidence points to Sherlock.

**T/N**: I'm going to take a moment to thank my lovely author who gave me permission to translate this beautiful piece of fanfiction.

Reviews are greatly appreciated! Enjoy your reading, and Happy New Year to everyone! ;3

* * *

'Sodding rain. It was bone-freezingly cold enough without it,' thought John for what seemed like a hundredth time that day while bringing his hands to his mouth and blowing at them in an attempt to at least partially warm them up. Two hours had passed since he had settled under the thicket of bushes, crouching next to the cottage on the outskirt of a quiet, apparently died-out village. If the field supervision that has been prudently provided by Mycroft doesn't let down, John thought, there won't be any sense in his surveillance, under the nasty drizzle at the sunset of a chilly September evening.

But if there is a chance, however meagre, that this bastard could manage to circumvent Mycroft's men and arrive here to destroy the one and only proof which could get Sherlock out… In that case, John was prepared to stay in freezing cold for months, should such need arise. He was prepared to studiously disregard the persistent dirt which had percolated into his shoes, seemingly getting bored of squelching on the outside and thus deciding to go in search of a warmer shelter under the doctor's feet.

"_Mycroft, you can't possibly believe he's capable of that!" _

_Positively aghast at the older Holmes' tranquil demeanour in regards to Sherlock's arraignment to face murder trials, John stood in the midst of the guest room of the Diogenes Club. It had been three days since Sherlock was arrested, over the course of which John repeatedly and, to no particular avail, tried to contact his brother._

"_An octave lower, please," quietly advised Mycroft to the enraged doctor. "Unless it is your intention to divulgate our family problems to the broader audience."_

_Attempting his best to calm down and keep the level head, John sat down in the armchair, grudgingly complying to Mycroft's welcoming gesture. _

"_Then let me in on your further plan of action. I'm sure you're not going to just sit and watch Sherlock being tried for murders he didn't commit?" Slightly narrowing his eyes and clenching his hands into fists, John looked over at the man opposite him._

"_Your loyalty is touching, John, but the evidence is irrefutable." Noticing how the doctor's head jerked up at the words, Mycroft held up his hand to anticipate the retort, "And our mere faith in Sherlock's innocence is not enough." He made sure to accentuate 'our'._

_Tipping his head to one side, John gazed at Mycroft expectantly. The older Holmes sighed._

"_As much as it grieves me to disappoint you, John, my power is not limitless," Mycroft lifted his hands in dismay. "I can't simply free him of all charges. What I could organise, though, is for a psychiatrist to declare him mentally unstable with consequent institutionalisation."_

_At that, John shuddered and glanced up from his firmly locked hands on his lap. He stared at Mycroft with close scrutiny. The older Holmes held his gaze._

"_I've familiarised myself with the case," said Mycroft, reaching out to hand a thin folder to Watson. "Pass it along to Sherlock. I wonder if he comes to the same conclusion as I." _

_In response to John's befuddled expression Mycroft raised from his armchair, giving to understand that the conversation was finished. Before leaving, he turned to add:_

"_John, I've procured a permission for you to visit Sherlock. Unfortunately, I'm in no position to see him myself, and, at any rate, I reckon your presence will uplift his spirits with a much greater efficiency than mine."_

Mindful as not to disturb rustling branches, John slightly readjusted himself, shifting to stretch his numbed legs. If the criminal came there directly, there was a possibility John would have to tackle him down on his own.

Mycroft had been able to involve only two men in the action, 'for personal needs' as he had conveniently put it. Those two were currently conducting external surveillance over the suspect. The arrangement had left John by himself. He huffed out a gloomy snort, sadly pondering on the fact that when it came to him or his family, all the mighty power of the impersonated British government would suddenly evanesce into thin air. Rechecking his gun, John thought back to Sherlock again. He was probably awake right now, much like the doctor. John let out a terse laugh, feeling glad that Sherlock hadn't the slightest idea where his staunch blogger was sticking about at the present moment. Otherwise he would worry himself sick.

Such musings could very well seem ridiculous to an unfamiliar onlooker, especially taking into consideration all those skirmishes and all those scuffles John and Sherlock had been active participants of. To feel flurried on account of such a commonplace, nondescript ambush, even if all the lurking concerned a psycho with a minimum of two dead bodies on his hands, well, one could still assume it appeared ridiculously silly. Shaking his head in slight disapproval, John bit down an involuntary smile as his thoughts roamed to his and Sherlock's adventures. Seconds after, the smile faded away as soon as he remembered how awful Sherlock had looked the last time John paid him a visit during his pre-trial detention.

– o –

With Mycroft's folder tucked under his arm, John strode down a long and rather oppressive corridor preceded by a police officer. The sound of a cell lock being clanked open sent a twitching sensation through John's chest, and the sight that unfolded before him as he stepped inside the cell made the doctor freeze, rooted to the spot.

Never before in his life had he seen Sherlock so lost, broken and hopeless. Over the years they had struggled their way through a variety of dire circumstances, many of which had been risky and mortally perilous, but Sherlock would never lose his faith and his firm determination in the positive outcome. His insurmountable strength of mind would always genuinely fascinate John. Besides, what about Sherlock's ability to disregard all the crooked and leering smirks, accompanied by tactless jibes? John knew his friend well enough to realise that he wasn't a heartless log, and that taunts and mockery cut him as deeply as they would the person next door, however, Holmes had long since mastered the skill of concealing that discomfort, or sometimes even pain, behind his apathetic and arrogant façade. Entering the cell and stumbling upon such vulnerability, John felt completely at a loss.

Sherlock sat on a narrow berth, with his fingers interlocked and his eyes staring into the void. At the sound of the opening door, the detective jerked up his head, and John felt his heart clench in his chest at the sight of his friend's face. Over the course of three days Sherlock had paled even more, looking hollow-cheeked and haggard; black circles had settled underneath his eyes. As the detective met John's gaze, a barely noticeable shiver racked through him and made him avert his glance. John quietly waited for the cell door to close shut behind him as the lock clanked back into place, then he stepped further into the small space of the room and perched down next to Sherlock. A few minutes had ticked by in strained silence. Sherlock's eyes were studiously boring into the farther corner of the cell, unwilling to face John, and the doctor deemed it prudent not to rush things up.

"Why did you come?" The detective's voice sounded composed and only ever so gravelly as though he hadn't spoken for a long time.

"I've brought you the case folder," answered John, keeping his tone neutral.

Sherlock let out a snort, hardly audibly.

"Lestrade has already been here." Now his voice distinctly dripped with caustic irony. "And you, as I see, owe this dubious pleasure to Mycroft."

John was starting to feel a remote irritation as Sherlock, even in such dismal circumstances, seemed to be keen on behaving like a difficult teenager.

"You know, I sort of expected you'd be at least a bit glad to see me," he snapped, rather harshly.

In one brisk movement, Sherlock whirled and leaned forward, nearly touching his nose to John's.

"I _am_ glad. Don't I look it? Oh, do forgive me, I just don't know how a murderer is supposed to behave around an old loyal friend who doesn't want to believe in his culpability. Or do you, perhaps? Or are you here to ensure my decent behaviour during the trail in order to obtain a highest possible extenuation? I see, Mycroft is loath to waste his spare time on strutting around jails so he decided to send you in his stead," Sherlock said, smirking rather unpleasantly. "But, oh yes, how stupid of me not to realise it, it's not becoming of a successful politician to be burdened with a convicted brother. What a nuisance! Whereas psychopaths are not infrequent even in the most respectable of families. So when exactly should I expect a psychiatric evaluation, John? I don't think any acting would be required. The results of the expertise are already prejudged."

After delivering the diatribe, Sherlock squared his shoulders and gazed down at John with a cold expression pinned to his face. John half-closed his eyes and counted to ten.

"Well, Sherlock. You're right about some of the things," John forced his voice to sound calmly, looking unwaveringly in Sherlock's eyes. "It's not going to be a walk in the park, getting you out of here. You should study all we have on the case to help us find a clue to counterbalance what the police have on their hands."

Sherlock's features quivered, almost imperceptibly, acquiring a closed-off and congealed expression as he replied, staring directly at John.

"They have examined the blood collected from the second victim's teeth and also the blood found on the edge of the table in the room where the girl was murdered. It's my blood. I have a knife wound on my forearm, quite corresponding in its shape and depth to the one which a culprit would've tried to cover with a knife cut after getting bitten by a victim. You sewed the wound yourself, Doctor, and you've also treated the bleeding scrape on the back of my neck," Sherlock countered, his voice an emotionless sound, as though he was simply laying out one of his many deductive ruminations and the circumstances of the case didn't have any bearing on his own life. "Those are direct evidence, and I have no alibi. What other proof of my guilt do you require?"

John held the gaze of the ice-cold, grey eyes and then responded, his tone quiet but steady.

"None. I know that you didn't do it."

"Sentiment?"

"No. I know you, and that's good enough for me. I could even believe that you'd kill in self defense or to save someone else's life." At those words John intentionally faltered, looking fixedly in the grey eyes until the detective couldn't withstand the scrutiny and blinked. A corner of John's lips quirked up slightly before he resumed, "I could even believe in a murder committed in the heat of passion, but not in a cold-blooded slaughter of children which is clearly a hand of a psychopath. Because you can be anything, from a haughty genius to an impossible bore, from a stubborn idiot to a real pain in the arse, but not a psychopathic murderer."

"Not everyone would agree with the last statement, John."

John lifted his chin, almost defiantly.

"Well, I'm not new to being outnumbered in that respect."

Sherlock exhaled a heavy breath as though he had been holding it, then swallowed and averted his eyes again. John tried to breathe out as stealthily as he could, too. He glanced at his friend who was now sitting with his shoulders drooped, his eyes downcast and hunched into himself, and John felt a pang of worry and hopeless fear eating at his gut. With all his being he suddenly felt the precipice open in Sherlock, the one he had never seen in the detective before, even at the time when the entire world with its media seemed to be set against them. Wishing to shake off the oppressing sensation, John slightly coughed, getting Sherlock's attention back, and handed him the folder containing the documents on the case.

Silently, Sherlock took it in his hands and set to reading.

"It's not sufficient even for a search warrant," Sherlock summarised after some time, angrily shoving the folder back on John's lap. "If Mycroft's people fail to dig up anything better," Sherlock thinned his lips, shaking his head, and then looked at John with a sad smile, "I'm afraid it will be a long, long time before I come back to Baker Street."

The sound of the key working the lock open made them both jump.

"You have ten minutes left," the police officer informed them before disappearing behind the door once more.

John leaned his elbows on his knees and pursed his lips, pondering over the goodbye words. Sherlock was watching him with a light smile on his face.

"Don't worry, John," he broke the leaden silence. "I'm all right. And I will be all right."

With a heavy heart, John got up to his feet, laid a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed it tightly as he met his friend's eyes. He gave him a curt nod and then, almost like a soldier again, whirled on his heels and was about to stride towards the door.

"John," sounded in his wake, and the doctor turned. Sherlock was looking at him, biting at his lip nervously. "John, let Mycroft know that prison is much more preferable than a psychiatric institution. By a mile. Do try to get this point across. Now go."

While he was saying it he desperately tried to maintain his habitual dignity, but his mildly trembling lips and lost eyes gave him utterly away. In the next instant John found himself back on the berth sitting next to Sherlock and holding him tight in his arms. Sherlock hugged him back, gripping John with both hands and pressing his forehead to John's shoulder. Not finding any right words, John silently drew circles on his friend's shuddering back. After a few minutes Sherlock's spine went rigid again, and he slowly pulled away from John's arms.

"Go, John," he urged in a quiet voice. "Go."

Not looking at his friend anymore, Sherlock rose to his feet and for a second kept his palm on the doctor's forearm before slowly turning away and retreating to the wall opposite the door. He stopped in the corner and squared his shoulders. John swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat, heaved a deep sigh and for the last time glanced at his friend's tense shoulders and ramrod spine before heading for the exit.

– o –

**Four days earlier**

John unhurriedly walked home. The weather was surprisingly warm for the middle of September, and the evening turned out to be unusually windless, so he decided to weave his way back on foot.

He had spent a rather pleasant evening in the pub in Mike's company, and their enjoyable pastime wasn't even interrupted with Sherlock's incessant text messages. Speaking of Sherlock, the apartment was most likely barren of any comestibles, and the detective hadn't even thought of going grocery shopping. In his mind's eye John scourged the fridge in search of something that wouldn't require a long preparation. His memory, as if on purpose, offered him a vivid picture of one of Sherlock's eerie experiments. His recent enterprise included a rather recognisable to a doctor's eye piece of kidney with pelvis, treated with some chemical muck. It didn't help to increase his appetite, so the doctor, who had already halted next to 'Speedy', decided to dismiss the idea. He breathed in the balmy air of the evening, enjoying the feeling of universal peace, and with a slight alcoholic blur in his head made for the door which had a '221B' sign across it.

Sherlock wasn't home. John was on the verge of heating the risotto which had been kindly supplied by their sweet landlady, as he heard familiar footsteps on the staircase. The door opened, and John quickly glanced over to greet his friend and froze at once, a spatula suspended in his hand.

Looking from under his brows, Sherlock glimpsed at John, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen, then threw his coat right on the floor, painfully hissing through his gritted teeth, and headed for the bathroom. John's gaze followed him, eyes grasping at the sleeve of his shirt, drenched in blood. With relief, he noticed that Sherlock's movements appeared free and certain, which meant he hadn't earned himself any grave injuries. John put his spatula aside, went to fetch his first aid kit and antiseptic and returned to the living room. Sherlock, his shirt taken off, was already sitting on the couch as he inspected the bleeding wound on his left upper arm. John carefully lifted the traumatised limb, put the towel under it and set to diligently examining the wound.

"What have you gotten yourself into again?" John asked in an exasperated tone of the voice, not stopping what he was doing. "Before I left you were torturing some unfortunate man's kidney while complaining about boredom and passivity of London criminal world. Four hours into my absence and you seem to have drastically amended the situation."

Sherlock gazed at his friend, who was looming over his injured arm, noticed a gloomy crease that had gathered between his eyebrows and held back a retort.

"Someone sent a plea for help on my website, and the case looked interesting enough," Sherlock paused for a moment, not managing to force down a painful hiss as John attempted to juxtapose the edges of the wound.

"We'll have to insert a few sutures," John concluded, glancing up at him. "Now show me your head."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a quizzical manner and John rolled his eyes.

"I'm not a complete idiot, you know." At that, Sherlock ironically grinned and John couldn't help smiling at him in response. "It's a cutting wound and it has smooth edges. It means you didn't offer any resistance. You weren't tied up since you have no traces on your wrists. Which means you were unconscious. The only conclusion one could draw is that there was a blow to your head, and strong enough at that, since it managed to knock you out."

"Oh," said Sherlock.

"I'm usually more explicit when I express my amazement at your deduction skills, but I'm going to chalk up your lack of eloquence to your probable brain concussion," John looked at his flatmate, a grave concern in his features. "We need to get you to the hospital, Sherlock. You can't joke around with head traumas like that."

Sherlock looked up at his worried friend who so untimely decided to switch on his favourite doctor mode.

"John, I'm all right." At that, John only shook his head, wearily. "You understand very well that if I had a grave head trauma, I would've undoubtedly treated it in all seriousness," Sherlock's voice was laced with pleading intonations. John let out a resigned sigh, half-heartedly glaring at that big child, and couldn't refrain from a friendly jibe.

"With your lifestyle you'd want to reconsider your attitude towards doctor's examinations."

Sherlock shot him a haughty look but remained silent. John hid his smile and started with the patient's head.

There was quite a noticeable bump on the back of Sherlock's neck, and skin was slightly abraded. John carefully palpated the area around the spot.

"Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Do you have nausea? You feel any dizziness?" John asked, checking his friend's nystagmus and reflex eye movements. "Can you tell me for how long you were unconscious?"

"No. Around ten minutes. I've looked at the time before walking into that bystreet." Sherlock scrunched his face as John got to his feet and went to the kitchen, asking over his shoulder on his way:

"Going by the character of your forearm injury someone needed a piece of the great detective's meat, is that so?"

"John, sometimes you can zero in on the core of the question simply perfectly," Sherlock whispered to himself under his breath, thoughtfully closing his eyes and steepling his fingers underneath his chin. After a minute or two, he was unceremoniously plucked out of his musings when John threw him a bag of frozen peas, wrapped in a thin kitchen towel, with the brisk admonition of _'Put it to your bump'_. Meanwhile, the doctor set to laying out the necessary instruments for sewing up the wound. Sherlock watched his preparations while taking notice of his restrained accuracy and precision.

Finishing, John looked up and stumbled upon Sherlock's intent glance. The detective gave him an awkward smile and then broke the visual contact.

"You're lucky this time," John told him, returning Sherlock's wounded hand back on the towel. "I still have some anaesthetics left, so we won't have to sew it on the raw."

Sherlock pressed his lips, amused.

"I wouldn't assert it with such conviction," he replied, with a mirthful glint in his grey eyes. "I had thought that during our last time when having to get by without anaesthetics you, Doctor, worried a great deal more than your patient."

John cast him a reproving look, and then, realising it wouldn't make any impact on Sherlock anyway, just shook his head and started to prepare the operative site.

"So, what happened? They posted to you a plea for help, and then what?" After making the first knot, John glanced up at Sherlock. "Tell me what happened; it will help you distract yourself."

Sherlock drew a long sigh and began, "I headed for the address they gave me. On my way there, I had to cross a bystreet and, when I turned round the corner, I suddenly felt a blow to the back of my neck," Sherlock said, and then smirked, "I heard footfalls behind my back, but didn't set much store by them. When I regained consciousness, I just saw a cut on my forearm."

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyebrows raising and disapproval evident on his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Alright, a wound, if you like that term better. Although, technically, it's a cut. And no, I haven't received any other traumas. Don't give me that look."

After finishing with the last seams, John swathed a bandage around the cut.

"Did they take anything off you?" he queried while rearranging the mess on the coffee table.

Sherlock smiled with the corner of his mouth.

"My wallet. I've found it in no time after quickly searching in the adjacent dustbins." Looking askance at John, who stared at him with a questioning expression on his face, the detective smiled a contented smile and continued, "I had no cash in there, but I wear quite an expensive wristwatch. It could not possibly have gone unnoticed during their cutting ministrations. And if they had attacked me for the sole purpose of mugging, they would've taken my watch right away."

John perched on the couch next to Sherlock and started to tap his fingers against his knees.

"Why do you think they've done it?" he asked after a moment of silence.

Sherlock folded his hands again in that gesture which was so characteristic of him.

"I can't jump to conclusions with as scarce data as that. We shall wait and see. He was bright enough to retrieve all cash from the wallet, but also my credit card is missing". With that, Sherlock reclined against the back of the couch.

"Don't know about you, but I don't like it one bit." Rising to his feet, John picked up Sherlock's bathrobe that had been scattered over the chair and hurled it onto the detective's lap. "I'm going to make you some tea with toasts to spare your stomach for the time being, and then you're going straight to bed."

John turned round at the doorstep and, on stumbling upon Sherlock's eyes, added, his tone peremptory, "And you'll be sleeping there, and not indulging in the analysis of everything that happened to you today."

– o –

The night went quiet. John had settled on the couch and every two hours would wake Sherlock to check up on him, earning himself a great deal of displeased grumbling and, as was his custom, blatantly ignoring it.

As the morning dawned, John was rudely ripped out of the arms of Morpheus by the ringing doorbell. Reasonably presuming that after his night vigil he deserved at least a bit of a respite, John decided to leave it to Mrs. Hudson to deal with early guests. He had no doubts that the elderly lady, after peeking into the living room and noticing the doctor deep in sleep, would serve as a reliable bulwark of the sound and healthy sleep of her boys and would send the inopportune visitors on their merry way. With a yawn, John dragged the quilt up to his ears.

In over a minute, he realised that something was wrong downstairs and listened closer to the sounds coming from beneath. Mrs. Hudson's exasperated voice overlapped everyone else's, among which John recognised that of Lestrade. Thinking that this morning's slumber was already out the window, John grudgingly scrambled out of the quilt and idly started to put his socks on, yawning incessantly and trying to blink away the residues of his sleep.

The stamping of the feet reached him from the staircase, and Lestrade barged into the living room without as much as knocking, a pair of police officers and Mrs. Hudson in his wake.

Gloomy and at the same time unexpectedly embarrassed, the Inspector's countenance made John feel a vague, but distinctly unpleasant déjà-vu. The doctor got up from the couch, the remainders of sleep leaving him with a velocity of a continental express.

"Inspector, what's this all about?" John turned to Lestrade, his voice coarse all of a sudden as he forgot to even greet the other man.

Lestrade hung about in the doorway, awkwardly stepping from foot to foot. Mrs. Hudson, after entering the living room, folded her arms and was eyeing the Detective Inspector, who obviously felt ill at ease and didn't know where to look. Then she shifted her gaze to John, who stood in his socks only and with his eyes fixed on Lestrade. The police officers had frozen motionless at his side, as though prepared to convoy him further into the apartment.

"Yes." At length, Lestrade met John's glare. "Where's Sherlock?"

A tugging sensation crept into John's stomach at the inquiry before he swallowed and inwardly called himself a paranoiac. Sherlock must have stolen something from the crime scene again, and Lestrade decided to not let him get away with it easily this time.

"He's here, but I wouldn't want to—" John was cut short mid-sentence by the detective himself, who had stridden into the living room already fully dressed with his suit on. Swiftly assessing the mise-en-scène which had unfolded before his eyes, Sherlock thinned his lips and nodded to himself.

"Well, Inspector, are we making a rerun? Let me kindly inquire, by whose corpse have you found my credit card, now?" He asked, frostily, before outstretching his hands in one of the police officers' direction, meaningfully pointing towards his wrists. "I see you haven't brought your boss this time. How very thoughtful of you."

– o –

Making his best attempt to moderate the anger that seethed and swelled inside him, clouding his judgment, John entered Lestrade's office. The Detective Inspector gave him a short nod and gestured for John to sit down on the visitor's chair. John silently complied, locking his hands on his lap, and glanced over at the Inspector. Lestrade met his gaze, looking certain of himself.

"John, it's better if I tell you everything from the very beginning. I understand how much you hate to believe in Sherlock's guilt, and so do I, but facts are stubborn things."

His hands locking even harder, John mentally swore at Lestrade for dragging out this introductory soliloquy and wishing to finally hear those "facts" of his.

"Out with it, Inspector."

Lestrade heaved a long sigh.

"Maybe you'd like some water?"

"Greg!"

"Okay, all right." He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. "Right. It began two months ago when fifteen year-old Sally Peterson went missing. An ordinary girl, rather mediocre in school, but she played the violin very well and adored music altogether." Lestrade sent him a pointed look and John felt his anger flaring up like wild fire. "She went missing in the evening after attending a violin concert with her friends. They said that even before the said event started she had mysteriously told them she had plans for the evening. After the concert she bid everyone goodbye and went away on her own. One of the friends, who seemed to be dying from curiosity, managed to peep from around the corner and notice her getting into a car with a tall, dark-haired man, dressed in a coat or something similar to it. She hasn't been seen alive from that moment onwards. Her body hasn't been found yet either."

"For heaven's sake, it doesn't give you the right to arrest Sherlock on account of any of the crimes where a tall, dark-haired man in black clothes is involved!" John all but exploded, but Lestrade held a hand in the air, shaking his head.

"Nobody was planning on arresting him at the time."

"Then why didn't you come to him for help in the investigation?" John asked, narrowing his eyes. "Don't tell me you didn't think of that at the time!"

"John, calm down." The Inspector ran a tired hand across his face. "You may not believe it, but we don't consult Sherlock on all of our crimes; a good part of them we successfully solve on our own."

At that, John couldn't hold back a snort, and Lestrade jerked his head in an abrupt gesture.

"All right, Doctor, yes. Yes, if you will. I didn't want to involve a tall, dark-haired man in a conversation with two sorrow-stricken parents, let alone someone who would openly disregard their feelings! Besides, there was no body and there was no crime scene, what new leads could he possibly have dug out?"

Cooling off somewhat, Lestrade continued, "But all of it doesn't matter now. Today, a body of thirteen year-old Linda Millas was found in a basement of an apartment building, time of death being yesterday between six and eight p.m. One of the building's tenants called the police. Her ten year-old daughter told her that the other day, around four o'clock, when she was returning home from school she heard a scream coming from the basement and noticed that the door wasn't secured with a padlock, as was its usual state. But then the girl seemed to have forgotten about it and remembered only in the morning when she would have to pass that door again on her way to school. She told her mother, and the mother called the police."

Lestrade stopped for a moment before resuming, "Apart from the second victim's body, cynologists have discovered the buried corpse of Sally, who has been missing for two months. It seems the girl managed to give a shout, and the murderer realised that she could've been heard and that the basement would be most likely thoroughly searched, that's why he didn't go to the trouble of disposing of the body." Lestrade looked John squarely in the eyes. "In one of the corners of the basement we found the credit card. It was noticed and recovered only due to the illuminating lamps, for it was rather inconspicuous under the usual lighting. It lay there, half-covered with dust and cement powder."

"For God's sake, Inspector, are these the facts you were referring to?" John nearly laughed in his face. "Do you really not get it, or what is all that about? It's crystal clear that the murderer wanted to frame Sherlock. In order to get him out of the house, he left a message on his website, then ambushed him in a deserted place with no surveillance cameras, clocked him on the head, extracted the credit card out of his wallet and planted it at the crime scene. It's screamingly transparent."

The Inspector kept staring at John, his fingers tapping a rhythm against the desktop.

"That is, if we're looking from this particular standpoint," he stated in a quiet voice. "I'd like to choose this perspective myself. But, John, think about it for a moment. It can be interpreted the other way around. It's only from Sherlock that we know about the left message." Noticing that John was about to raise objections, Greg anticipated them with a motion of his hand, "Yes, I know, the author could've deleted it as well, but still. Everything which pertains to the mug attack and wallet larceny we know, too, only from Sherlock. Besides, the information he had given us is not confirmable. And then, nobody liked the fact that Sherlock immediately realised he was getting arrested and practically offered his wrists for handcuffing. People don't usually behave like that."

"Usually?! Greg, it's Sherlock! For heaven's sake, do I really have to spell it out?" John exclaimed, his tone acquiring dangerous notes, but Lestrade only thinned his lips and spoke further.

"To sum it up, objectively we have two murdered girls, first crime involving a tall, dark-haired man, second one being committed during Sherlock's absence, that with his credit card found at the crime scene. His head injury corresponds with a trauma which could've been received due to falling against the edge of the table in the basement. Moreover, it has traces of blood on it. Those are the objective evidence which is going to be taken into consideration by the investigators."

John straightened his spine and pierced Lestrade with a knife-sharp glare.

"Inspector, be honest at least with yourself. You believe Sherlock is guilty and now you're attempting to convince me of it. Only you know what," John braced his hands against the desk and leaned forward slightly. "No amount of so-called _evidence_ of yours," John made sure to voice the word in a distinctly flouting manner, as Lestrade inclined back in his chair, "—is going to be enough to convince me that, all of a sudden, Sherlock rushed to kill teenage girls in cold blood. Shit, you know, I'm starting to understand why Sherlock calls everyone an idiot sometimes." John shook his head and laughed, bitterly. "Although, what am I thinking? You need to increase crime detection ratings, and here you have a convenient suspect, and you're going to send him to prison, while his actual guilt or innocence is a thing of little to no importance!"

Lestrade's features tightened as he winced, biting back a scathing retort.

"John, I… I understand your feelings—"

"No," John interrupted before he could go any further, detestation written clearly on his face. "Don't even start with that rubbish! Well, of course, you understand everything, yet you can't do a thing. Remind you of anything much? That last time there, everyone was just dying to pin on Sherlock each and every crime committed in London for the past decade, and, by the way, just like now, no one could do anything! And somehow it's him who time and again becomes the easiest target, and—"

"Enough!" Unable to contain himself, Lestrade jumped to his feet, just like John in the next second. They were standing in front of each other, hands propping against the desk and glaring, both infuriated. Lestrade was the first one to regain his cool; he evened out his breath and shook his head at John.

"Damn it, John, you have no idea how sorry I am," Lestrade rubbed an exhausted hand over his eyes and looked at John again. "You think it was easy to come and arrest him? I rather hoped he would have an alibi, since you two spend almost all your time with each other. Of course, an alibi coming from the best friend is not the most reliable one given the evidence in question, but still better than nothing."

Absurdly feeling guilty simultaneously towards Sherlock and Lestrade, John sagged against the back of the chair, holding his head with both hands as he stared in front of himself, eyes downcast.

"Who could've framed him up so adroitly?" John voiced his thought out loud, not really addressing anyone in particular.

Lestrade glanced at the doctor, who sat frozen in utter despair, and released a heavy sigh. There was also a police psychologist's conclusion he still needed to tell John about. The Inspector experienced reasonable apprehension that it would cause yet another outburst of rage.

"Greg," John looked up, at length. "Can I see the place where the girl was found? If Sherlock has no such possibility, I'll be his eyes for the moment."

All but mentally groaning from such display of unquestionable loyalty and blind faith in spite of the whole situation, Lestrade was on the verge of banging his fist hard on the desk and out-right explaining to the doctor how things really stood. At the same time he wanted to preserve his temper, fearing that the true state of things could dampen John's spirits even more so.

As a matter of fact, the Inspector could've perfectly avoided the Herculean efforts he had made in order to save face, for John wasn't even looking at him at the moment, buried deep in his own thoughts. Ardent indignation and sharp hatred that had been storming in him against the whole bloody system and Lestrade as its current representative were quelled by the realisation of how crucial his actions were now for Sherlock's future.

A clear understanding dawned on him that the only thing that could help get Sherlock acquitted of all charges was the capture of the real murderer. If anything, it was on that exact task that John should be concentrating right now. He wouldn't be Doctor Watson, an army medic and a former war soldier, had he not known how to collect himself in extreme circumstances, moving his emotions to the background, and how to focus on what was the top priority task at any given moment. John immediately pulled himself together and banished the interfering feelings deeper down. It became obvious that first and foremost he needed to see Sherlock himself, for together they would be able to better assess the situation at hand and establish the further plan of action. John nodded at his own thoughts and returned his attention to the Inspector, who during the course of John's silent thinking was watching him with an attentive expression of somewhat apprehensive foreboding. John thought better of waiting for the response to his previous request; instead he gave Lestrade a sudden smile, baffling him with an abrupt change of mood.

"Inspector, considering our old friendship, can I count on some allowance on your part and ask to see Sherlock?"

Lestrade opened his mouth to respond, but had to close it at once. Not expecting to hear an answer which judging by the Inspector's confusion and awkwardness was going to be the negative one anyway, John hastily added:

"But could you send for the suspect and let me, by way of exception, be present throughout the questioning?"

Sighing with resignation, Lestrade picked up the inner house phone while John lowered his eyes and brought a hand to his mouth, hiding a contented smile.

– o –

In the custody of a young Sergeant, Sherlock was escorted into Lestrade's office. His gaze carelessly grazed the Inspector until his attention was fully riveted on John. The doctor wasn't new to being the target of Holmes' scanning scrutiny, but this time he could distinctly see the tension pulling at his friend's features when he painstakingly searched for something in John's face and at the same time dreaded to find it there, whatever it was. John waited for the detective's eyes to stop darting across his face and caught Sherlock's gaze with his own. For a few seconds they just looked at each other. Behind Sherlock's back, Lestrade gave a slight cough, calling everyone's attention.

"Sherlock, sit down," Lestrade gestured to his chair. Sherlock cast John a soft smile, waited for an encouraging smile in response and only then turned to the other man in the room.

"Have you obtained new evidence, Inspector? I don't reckon the blood test could have been already performed with such uncharacteristic promptness, never the police's forte that one?" Probably for the first time during their friendship John felt genuinely happy to hear sarcasm in Sherlock's voice, so familiar and home-like. It was an island of stability, a straw to cling on to in that insane ocean of uncertainty which seemed to have burst its banks. It instilled hope, reassuring that everything was going to be normal again, and Sherlock was going to solve this case and beat Scotland Yard to the punch. With a feeling of relief, John leaned against the back of the chair, relaxing for the first time since he had been jerked awake that very morning upon hearing footsteps from the staircase.

"Sit already," Lestrade repeated, rolling his eyes in reply to the usual stinging remark. Seconds after, he rubbed the back of his neck before waving an awkward hand between sitting John and still standing Sherlock. "Erm… Well, I need to leave you for a minute… Um, I'll… I'll be back shortly."

With an embarrassed cough, Lestrade left his office and quietly shut the door behind himself.

Immediately settling in Lestrade's chair, Sherlock placed his arms on the desk, and the handcuffs clattered against each other. He saw John's eye pinned to his wrists and hurried to move his hands under the table. John looked up at Sherlock and regained his composure, decisively pushing away the fear that had almost crawled back into the pit of his stomach again.

"Sherlock, he won't give me access to the crime scene, so now we're going to have to work out my next steps. Come on, tell me what I should do. You must have already figured out who's framed you up and how, haven't you? If I need—" John glanced over at the door and lowered his voice. "I mean, if I need to do something, or go somewhere, well, not entirely legally…"

John trailed off when he saw Sherlock looking at him with that rare warmth in his eyes and that odd expression on his face, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. It lasted not more than a few seconds. Catching the direction of the doctor's gaze, Sherlock pursed his lips and turned away. A moment later, he coughed, clearing his throat, and then spoke in his usual, rattling manner.

"I take it that both murders were committed by the same person; the condition of the corpses is a testament to it, be it a maniac or a psychopath. He is quite intelligent, considering the neatly arranged set-up. The question: why me, exactly? He could have either personal motives, or more trivial ones: he didn't want me to investigate the case and secured himself from my participation in the most efficient way possible. Why didn't he do that in the previous case? Because this time he knew for certain that the body was going to be discovered sooner or later, for the girl managed to cry out for help. So, what did he do? He published a message on my site, having quickly concocted a story interesting enough to get my attention and lure me out of the house. In that moment, judging by the time of death the girl was still alive, however, it was only a question of time, given the state of her injuries and the absence of immediate medical assistance. Note that as soon as there appeared the danger of the body being recovered, the murderer thought at once of fabricating a suspect. Therefore, there was a substantial necessity in it, and otherwise he would've been among the first to be suspected. No doubt, he had been following my cases and my site, probably your blog as well. So, he leaves a message with the address," Sherlock smirked, seemingly amused at the memory of the case which had piqued his curiosity. "There was one weak link in his chain, though. I could take you with me instead of going on my own."

At that, John felt a suffocating twinge of guilt, engulfing him all over again. If he hadn't gone to the pub that evening to have a drink with Mike, who also inconveniently deprived John of a chance to offer Sherlock at least a fake alibi — if it hadn't been for that evening with pints, he would have been at Baker Street and he would have most certainly gone together with Sherlock.

As always, Sherlock easily read the emotions on John's face and, cutting short his own chain of deductions, slightly shook his head and then spoke in an unusually gentle voice.

"Don't, John. I don't think it would've made a great deal of difference. Most likely, he had foreseen the possible presence of a companion. If anything, it could have been even worse." Uncomfortable, Sherlock averted his gaze and then resumed in his firm tone as though there hadn't been any digression at all. "So, I came and was knocked out by the blow to my head. It's a shame that I didn't get to see the attacker. But going by the character of both wounds, it's a tall man of robust bodily constitution, right-handed, knows his way around a scalpel and has a fair amount of knowledge of anatomy, which is also consistent with the victims' injuries."

Sherlock's arms twitched a bit as though he wanted to bring his hands closer to the lips in his favourite gesture before thinking better of it and willing them to remain motionless under the desk. Instead, he hardened his mouth into a thin line.

"Link, link, link, there has to be a link between the victims." Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in deep concentration, staring at one spot in front of himself. John quietly watched him think. Silence stretched out for less than a minute when the door opened, and Lestrade returned into his office.

"I'm sorry, guys, but that's as long as I can give you," he lifted his hands in dismay, stumbling across a mute reproach in both Sherlock and John's eyes. "I have to talk with Sherlock myself now since I need to fill in the examination record. John, I'm going to have to ask you to leave us now." Lestrade waved towards the door.

Rising to go, John gave Sherlock a nod, trying to convey support with his eyes instead of with words which he hadn't had time to voice out loud, then shook Lestrade's outstretched hand and vacated the room.

Back in Baker Street, as he was crossing the threshold of their living room, John felt the cruel reality of all that was happening land heavily on his shoulders. From beneath the locked depths of his memory came a lugubrious reminder of the quieter times in their humble abode. Casting a look across the usually encumbered room, John winced from the short spasm in his leg and resolutely walked inside, tugging his mobile out on the way and scrolling down the contact page before he found Mycroft's name.

– o –

**Twelve hours earlier**

A sound of incoming message woke him up. Jolting suddenly into wakefulness, John hastily groped for the phone which lay next to him on the couch and opened the text.

"At Baker Street in twenty minutes. MH."

Rubbing a hand over his face, John swiped away the remnants of his disquieted sleep.

The last three days were unparalleled madness.

In the beginning, John had no doubts whatsoever in the happy outcome of the matter and perceived it as an unfortunate misunderstanding, an unpleasant one and reminiscent of the most dreadful ghosts from his past, but none the less, a misunderstanding which was bound to resolve itself sooner or later. All the evidence was indirect, notwithstanding Lestrade's inclination to claim otherwise.

But as days passed, John's solid certainty was growing thinner and thinner.

For a start, John had spent a great deal of time futilely trying to contact Mycroft on whom he placed quite a lot of hopes.

Then, two days ago Lestrade came at Baker Street in person. Looking everywhere but at John, he had informed the doctor that according to the blood analysis, collected samples from the edge of the table and the second victim's teeth had showed that it was Sherlock's.

Closing his eyes shut, John recalled their conversation that evening.

"_I'm so sorry, John, but the investigation is suspended." At length, Lestrade's eyes ceased to roam all over the living room furniture and met John's. "Now there's not much hope of finding any new evidence. We're about to prepare the papers and take them to court."_

_At his last word, John almost physically felt all his blood draining from his face. _

"_Inspector, you've got to understand that the blood could be taken from the wound on Sherlock's arm. The injury was inflicted for that precise purpose."_

_Lestrade let out an exhausted sigh. _

"_John, I realise that all of it can be explained away, but—" He broke off, deciding against what he was about to say. And then continued, "Let's hope Sherlock gets a good lawyer. I'm truly sorry, John."_

_With that, the Inspector turned on his heels and was about to leave when John stopped him, hastily asking, "Greg, let me at least see him. You know how he must feel right now!"_

_But Lestrade, without a backward glance, only shook his head._

"_I'm sorry, John, but it's already outside the scope of my competence."_

_Not saying anything else, he strode out of the living room, leaving John standing there in a disarray of thoughts and feelings. _

Thinking back to that last meeting with the Inspector, John felt a dreary feeling of doom closing in on him again. It was beyond doubt now that the noose of the trap Sherlock had fallen into had already tied into a tight knot. It would require a lot to help him get out of it. John forcefully rubbed at his eye sockets. The Sherlock he had seen yesterday in the cell hadn't offered any optimism either. For a second John had had the impression that the detective was a stone's throw away from believing in his own guilt. John's memory quickly supplied him with Sherlock's helpless request to spare him the fate of a psychopath institutionalised for a compulsory medical treatment. In spite of himself, John couldn't help wondering whether Sherlock had already had a similar experience in his past. The mere thought sent a shiver down his spine.

John knew that Sherlock abhorred pity in all its shapes and sizes, but right now a surge of compassion clutched hard at his heart, numbing all his senses. An inexorable mixture of sympathy and a feeling of conscious helplessness was an emotion John always hated the most.

A doorbell rang downstairs, and John went out to let inside a man on whom he pinned his last hope.

"Good morning, John." The doctor gave a short nod in response to the greeting and gestured for the older Holmes to come inside. On their way upstairs, John took notice of the other man's absolutely dispassionate appearance, for his clean-shaven face wore its tranquil and amicable countenance and betrayed not a single trace of a sleepless night; his tie was flawlessly fastened around his neck. John made a mental comparison with his own unkempt, dishevelled look which rather mirrored the state of his mind, and thought that Mycroft seemed to be coping definitely better.

Proceeding into the living room, Mycroft seated himself in Sherlock's chair while John occupied the spot right across from him, after deciding to save himself the trouble of brewing tea and wishing to get straight to the point instead.

"John, I'm fairly certain you've read the folder before passing it along to Sherlock," Mycroft granted him with that characteristic look of his as John nodded, with perfect calm.

"Then you know that a common link between the two girls is their violin teacher, John Wilson, who, as a matter of fact, has no alibi. Both girls were quite enthusiastic about music, and while not achieving much in their other school subjects they seemed to make a lot of progress in playing the instrument."

John glanced with curiosity at Mycroft, who then lifted his eyebrows and continued, "But one of the tenants of the building where the murders took place strikes me as a more interesting figure. His name is Jason Adams, and he was one of the performers at the concert attended by Sally Peterson. Unfortunately, all of this could very well be only idle speculations devoid of any probative value. Naturally, I've extensively examined everything we have on these gentlemen, yet I found nothing that could be used as a starting point. Both musicians are currently under twenty-four-hour field supervision. However, much to my chagrin, neither has yet deviated from his everyday routine," Mycroft pensively swung his umbrella, looking directly at John, who, trying to hide another wave of despair, turned away towards the window. "But I wouldn't be vainly squandering my time if I had nothing to contribute to what you've already gleaned from the documentation."

Shuddering, John fixed Mycroft with a look of absorbed attention. Holmes sent him an icy smile.

"Yesterday evening I visited the crime scene. No one has any doubts that the murders were committed by a person with severe psychological aberrations. It's for that reason also that Sherlock fits the suspect position so conveniently." John straightened in his chair, his jaw visibly tightening, but Mycroft only shook his head at the reaction, "John, I perfectly understand your attitude towards this implication, but it won't be able to influence the public opinion which is no secret to you as well. However, I'm not here to reiterate the obvious, but to tell you that the character of the crime scene strongly suggests that the girl was photographed shortly before her death, in detail and from various angles. I highly doubt the police took any cognisance of the fact, but it still stands out as fairly obvious." The last word and the tone in which it was pronounced so sharply reminded John of Sherlock that he couldn't help a bitter smile. "Usually, psychopaths treat such photographic evidence with great reverence and are bound to keep it, most likely, even in the printed version."

John sent Mycroft an intent look, and the latter nodded.

"Mr. Adams and Mr. Wilson's apartments have been thoroughly searched and all digital data carriers have been closely examined. Both apartments have been also checked for secret compartments, but alas," Mycroft thinned his lips, "no photographs have been discovered. However, Adams has a small country house in the suburbs. It has been searched as well, yet cottage houses provide much more possibilities to construct a hiding place. Besides, my people were limited in time, because Mr. Adams' elderly mother lives there on the permanent basis and rarely leaves the place. Fortunately, today she is going to pay a visit to her friend."

Mycroft let the words hang in the air for some time while he glanced out the window, disregarding John's tense anticipation, before resuming in a willfully even tone of the voice.

"I issued an order for my men to be more conspicuous in their external surveillance. I want to make the perpetrator feel nervous. He's currently quite sure of himself, and the supervision has to make him realise he's under suspicion; it's bound to upset his equanimity. He has to be shaken enough to make a mistake," Mycroft gave John a sharp look. "It could be Sherlock's only chance."

"What's required of me?"

"To watch over the cottage. My men will create a semblance of leaving while changing their positions. It should instigate the murderer to make use of that short-term freedom and he would attempt to destroy the evidence. Unfortunately, as I already told you, my powers are not without limit, and I don't have enough people to cover the whole perimetre of his country house. You have to be there in case the murderer miraculously evades the observation troops and makes it there. You've seen the photographs of the suspects, I presume, and hopefully memorised them?"

John nodded with confidence, and Mycroft passed him over a scrap of paper with the address of the cottage. Then, he levered himself out of the chair and strode to the exit, throwing on his way:

"Don't feel obliged to see me off. Depart as soon as possible. I'll let you know if there appears any new information and if there ceases to be a need for surveillance over the cottage. I suppose I don't have to remind you of the means of self-defense."

That was the brief account of how John eventually found himself crouching in the shrubbery, a short distance away from the darkened country house, on a cold and dank September evening. He checked on his gun again, tucked behind the belt of his jeans, and adjusted his jacket, protecting the weapon from the relentless drizzle.

He nearly missed a dark shadow which popped into sight on the front path towards the porch.

His guard at once on alert, John watched a tall and stoutly-built man fiddle the key in the old lock before in the dim-burning glow of a lighter he saw, with surprise, that the face of the stranger was completely unfamiliar to him. It was neither Adams, nor even Wilson, if only the former hadn't undergone a quick plastic surgery. Nevertheless, John tugged his gun out and, as soon as the stranger walked inside the house, quietly left the bushes and made a swift run towards the wall of the cottage. John didn't even have time for much premeditation, for the visitor appeared on the porch and set to locking the door again. The coming of a random relative on a late evening could, of course, mean absolutely nothing, but his coming on that exact evening? Thinking that he couldn't care less about all probable consequences, John detached himself from the wall and, pointing his gun at the hunched man, commanded in a low, but firm voice:

"Raise your hands above your head so that I could see them and slowly turn around."

Shuddering and in an abrupt movement, the man lifted his hands above his head as he was told, and straightened his back, turning around. John saw the frightened face of a young man. He exhaled and barely fought the impulse to lower his gun, deciding to first get to the core of that short night visit. After all, he had a good stimulus in his hand for an honest conversation.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" John asked directly, without much ceremony.

The young man, with his hands still in the air and his eyes glued to the gun in John's hand, answered:

"I'm… Er… I was asked, and I had to come. I'm her nephew, I mean I'm Mrs. Adams' nephew, and she owns the house, and she asked me to check on it."

John felt sympathy for the scared boy, but something in his babbling story struck him intuitively as wrong.

"She's absent only for one day, and what's with the strange checking which lasts only a couple of minutes and during nighttime?"

The bloke shot a nervous glance in the direction of the door and made a half-step away from it. The movement didn't come unnoticed to John. He slightly tipped his gun.

"Come on, kindly explain what this is all about."

The young man looked at him again.

"Let's just move away from the house and I'll tell you everything you want to know. Let's just step away from it."

John frowned.

"What's wrong with its proximity?"

"Because it's just about to blow up!" The bloke finally shouted, unable to wait any longer, before he bolted away from the cottage.

In that instant, pieces of the jigsaw as though clicked back into their proper place in John's head. With prompt precision, he quickly took aim of the running man and prayed for him to not accidentally tumble down and expose his head instead of his legs. John fired. Judging by the stifled outcry superseded by a loud groaning, he didn't miss the target. Deciding not to waste any more time on the bloke, John swiftly worked the lock open with the key which had been left in the hole and barreled into the house. A sharp smell of gas rushed immediately into his nose. A rag was slowly smouldering in the corner. There was no sense in putting it out, for most likely there were other suchlike rags, and the gas was going to explode as soon as it would reach its maximum concentration in the air. John dashed into the kitchen, intent on switching off the tap, when already from the threshold he noticed a diligent layout of photographs arranged atop of the cooker with a flash drive deposited next to them in close quarters. Two music copybooks were placed on the chair by the kitchen table. Hastily, John collected every single item of evidence and put it into the inner pocket of his jacket, while tucking copybooks behind the belt of his jeans. In the next moment, he broke into a run, tearing away from the kitchen.

He needed only another few seconds to make it out of there when he felt an unbearable heat and a thunderous crash behind him. Something hit his back, and then darkness pulled him in.

– o –

Sherlock didn't nourish any particular hopes on account of his chances. He didn't nourish _any_ hopes at all. There were dead bodies, there was circumstantial evidence, and there was the suspect. And there was Scotland Yard, but there wasn't Sherlock Holmes to acquit the wrongfully accused of the charges put against him. What Mycroft had managed to dig out wasn't sufficient even for a search warrant. Sherlock had no doubt the apartments had been searched without any warrants anyway, but they had been searched by people whose observational skills didn't seem to exceed that of Scotland Yard's.

Even then, three days ago, when he returned home and when he watched John sew his wounded arm, he thought that what had happened with him couldn't have been an accident. He didn't have a habit of analysing without having the data at his disposal. To guess and make conjectures? He wouldn't stoop that low. Lestrade's entrance in their living room with murder accusations based on Sherlock's found credit card hadn't come as quite a surprise to him. Positive blood tests were to be expected as well. However, Sherlock had been certain that with Mycroft's forces the case would've been solved before the police would have time to receive results. When his certainty had proved to be faulty, it really had put him out of sorts. When he had read the folder his brother had passed along through John, he realised that Mycroft practically acknowledged his own powerlessness. The only hope left was for the murderer to slip up. But even if it happened, would Mycroft's men pick up on it? Chances of the murderer's possible blunders were forming into fanciful situational designs. The brain, which had no other work to occupy itself with, was now perseveringly coming up with newer pictures to later dissect and anatomise them on its own. Baker Street's pool of tedium seemed now like a paradise to Sherlock, compared to this incessant, senseless droning of thoughts in his head. He was really about to ponder over the possibility of Mycroft not even having to go to the trouble of falsifying a psychiatrist's evaluation.

Dejectedly, Sherlock threw his head into his hands and pressed at his temples as hard as he could in a pathetic and pointless attempt to quench the disgusting thought-crawling in his mind. He, then, visualised how pitifully he must be looking right now from an outsider's viewpoint. At once, he tried to brush aside the hunched figure, conveniently supplied by his brain, and forcefully carded his fingers through his hair, firstly pulling hard at the scalp till it almost hurt and then roughly tugging at his hair, with such strength that sparkles started to dance before his eyes. The acute pain allowed him to at least temporarily concentrate on something else apart from the thinking process which seemed to have developed a life of its own.

There came a squeaking sound of the opening lock, and Sherlock sat up straight immediately, hastily schooling his face into a mask of indifference and clenching his fists to conceal the fact that his fingers trembled.

"Staying late for work, Inspector?" Sherlock inquired with a quizzical arch of his eyebrow as Lestrade appeared in the doorway. "Or have you discovered any new evidence?"

Lestrade's face wore an odd expression when he looked at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, you're free of all charges. New evidence has come to light which unequivocally points to the real murderer."

"Oh," Sherlock uttered quietly, ruthlessly struggling with an imminent wave of relief which was about to wash all over him. For some time, he was unable to control his own body, muscles suddenly losing their tone and black patches blocking his vision. Sherlock was fairly sure that if he had been standing at that moment, he would've, by all means, fallen on the floor. But as luck would have it, he was sitting and his dignity didn't suffer too much of a disparagement. Sherlock allowed himself to slightly tilt his head to one side for a few seconds, and then exhaled, sharply but without a sound. In his mind's eye popped a picture of their living room at Baker Street and John's beaming face. But now was not the time, Sherlock chided himself.

Sherlock levered himself from the berth and cast an attentive look at the Inspector.

Evidently feeling ill at ease and with his face unusually blanched, Lestrade met Sherlock's gaze and glanced away almost immediately. Sherlock wondered what all the awkwardness was about. Did he feel uncomfortable? Ashamed? Was his pride hurt? Most likely, a mixture of the first two.

Smirking, Sherlock decided not to deny himself the pleasure.

"Adams?"

As expected, Lestrade almost started and stared at Sherlock in amazement.

"How did you—? Although, it doesn't matter now. It's Stephen Adams, yes."

Stephen? Now it was Sherlock's turn to be baffled. Unwilling to let it show through, he only half-lifted one eyebrow, silently prompting Lestrade to expand. But the Inspector, instead of relaxing and offering a rundown of the operation and of the chain of events which had led them to the murderer, kept loitering in the doorway and nervously biting his lips.

Oh. It was probably Mycroft's interference which had irritated and angered Lestrade to cause this embarrassed demeanour.

Sherlock's lips curved in a derisive smile. Scotland Yard didn't like their laurels to be snatched by intelligence service. But there was something else in Lestrade's behaviour, something else in the way he hastily averted his eyes and how he fidgeted the zip fastener on his jacket. The inconsistency gnawed like an importunate worm on the back of Sherlock's mind, and the detective tensed, knitting his eyebrows.

"You've let him escape, haven't you, Inspector?"

Sherlock suspected the answer and already started to look forward to the future investigation, mentally calculating his next steps and relishing the prospect of exercising his brain which had grown tired of inertness and – what was even worse, much worse – of the nonsensical and infinite mulling of the selfsame facts.

But Lestrade seemed be exceptionally unpredictable this day, for his next remark surprised Sherlock for the second time over the course of five minutes.

"We haven't, Sherlock." And then, with a fast and impatient eagerness to spill out the entire amount of information and as if wishing to proceed to something much more important, Lestrade pattered, "He's been already interrogated, and most likely he's going to be passed over to psychiatrists soon, since his actions indicate his complete derangement." That saying, Lestrade faltered, guiltily glancing over at Sherlock, but the latter pretended not to have noticed it. "He's Jason Adams' cousin, who lives in the house where—"

Sherlock let out a tired sigh.

"Inspector. It's obvious that the murderer made a copy of the keys for the basement. He met the girls at his cousin's concerts. Let psychiatrists find out his motive, if he even had one. The case was solved due to the intervention of the third party," Sherlock granted the Inspector with a frankly ironical look, "and thanks to the found evidence, but not in the violinist's apartment, of course, but in the country house, am I right?"

Lestrade had barely time to nod as Sherlock spoke again.

"And the man was caught red-handed when he tried to retrieve the evidence," Sherlock threw him a triumphant glance. "Which allowed you to immediately charge another person and free the other suspect, whose case had been already taken to court, for the evidence must have been irrefutable. Which means it was those girls' personal belongings or… Of course! Photographs! Photographs of the victims!"

"He didn't try to retrieve them, Sherlock. He decided to destroy them there and then. He was afraid he was being followed, so he decided not to run the risk of being caught in the act of carrying the photographs elsewhere. He would've succeeded, had it not been for John. Can you imagine that he shot that bastard in the shin muscle in the darkness and from a good distance, too? A trifling wound, yet you won't run far with it."

Sherlock felt a feeling of pride spreading in his chest, and his lips, as though of their own accord, curved up in an open and sincerely warm smile, a rare occurrence on the detective's features. The smile faded away as soon as Sherlock met Lestrade's gaze. The Inspector looked directly in his eyes, his face set in that odd expression again.

Pity?

Sherlock felt his mouth become dry at once, as he asked in a suddenly coarse voice.

"What happened?"

"A gas explosion. Fire is the best means to destroy all traces. John ran into the house to save the evidence which were meant to help you get acquitted."

An emotional squall Sherlock had experienced only some ten minutes ago now seemed like a light breeze.

"Alive?" When Sherlock saw Lestrade glance away again, his chest constricted painfully, and he felt like he couldn't even breathe anymore.

"Has been, Sherlock. I'm sorry, but it's very bad."

In two strides, Sherlock covered the distance which stretched between him and the door of the cell. As though in a daze, he negotiated the corridor and descended down the stairs towards the exit. He ignored the calling behind his back and then roughly wrenched away from some police officer's grasp. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he registered the voice of Lestrade, who kept walking in his wake and who, apparently, was explaining something to the guard. Sherlock went outside and made a beeline for the black car which was parked in close quarters. As soon as he appeared on the street, a man dressed entirely in black got out of the vehicle and opened the side door in front of the detective.

Probably for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes lost the sense of time. The road seemed endless, and the waiting was tying his insides in a tight knot. He watched the scenery drift by with unseeing eyes and kept convulsively clenching his fists in his lap, from time to time wiping his clammy palms on his trousers. He could hardly make himself sit still, yearning, uncontrollably, to just jump out of the car and make a run for the bloody hospital, only not sit on one spot when all inside him was imploding, his stomach turning in a painful grip. _What the hell, John? Why the hell did you assume that I needed my freedom bought at such price?_ The anger which had barely flared up again gave way to an agonising realisation of his own guilt. If only he wasn't so screamingly obvious then in letting his weakness show through, if only he could've retained his desperation.

The car skidded to a halt, and Sherlock swung open the door, all but springing outside.

Mycroft was already expecting him in the hall. Without any scrupulous formalities, he cut straight to the chase.

"He's alive, Sherlock. His condition is grave, but relatively stable. The burned area is not vast, due to his quick retrieval from the burning cottage. What's worse is that his upper respiratory tracts were burned and the degree is yet to be determined. Apart from that, three fractured ribs, a closed traumatic pneumothorax and brain concussion. His spleen is ruptured, but the surgery went well."

"His chances?" a quiet, yet raucous voice.

"Doctors are not mathematicians. They say that time will tell, and for now that's all they can offer. Much less guarantee."

"I need to see him."

"He's in a sterile isolation ward, Sherlock. That's out of question."

Sherlock's obstinate glare was met by Mycroft's tranquil and unbending look.

"You don't want to harm him, do you?" he asked, averting his eyes as he saw his brother's shoulders droop. Mycroft suppressed a sigh and said, pitching his voice low, "The chauffeur will take you to Baker Street. You've had a rough patch of days lately. I'm going to stay here and I shall inform you, should any changes occur in regards to his state. I promise." Mycroft gazed at his brother again.

"I'm staying."

"Sherlock, it has little to no sense. You'd better not be dying from exhaustion when he regains consciousness."

"I'm staying." His chin was lifted upwards, his lower jaw slightly protruding.

Mycroft sighed.

"All right. Let's get you a shower and a white coat then."

Sherlock was sitting in the armchair of a private hospital's waiting room. Twenty six hours had passed since he was released. A detached onlooker, upon taking a glimpse of that young man with his face set in rigid features and his gaze spaced out, would have a hard time guessing that the young man's best friend was fighting for his life at that very moment. And even if they knew, they'd most likely think of him as a heartless freak. Mycroft wasn't a detached onlooker, and besides, he knew exactly where to look for Sherlock's genuine feelings. Right now he didn't have to look anywhere. Without making the slightest sound, Mycroft separated himself from the wall he'd been leaning against, and sunk into the adjacent chair. Sherlock didn't even stir.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." Sherlock started as though wakened up from a trance. He turned and stared at Mycroft, a frown suffusing his forehead. The older Holmes thinned his lips. "I'm sorry. I had misjudged the order of things and misplaced the priorities."

Sherlock swallowed hard and turned away. How convenient would it be, just like in his childhood, to blame Mycroft for everything, only… right now that wouldn't bring him any consolation.

Sherlock half-closed his eyes. And that was a mistake. Because in a blink of a moment, behind his eyelids and as though they were unfolding movie scenes, one picture after another started to flash in rapid succession.

John standing almost at attention in the laboratory. _'Here, use mine.'_

Their first, out of subsequent hundreds, ride together in the cab. _'That was… amazing.'_

Sherlock's blunder with the taxi passenger when he waited for a jeer that never came. _'Welcome to London.' _

Their first laugh together.

Their apartment at Baker Street. _'This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?' _Even there and then, that unshakeable, that unwavering, groundless faith in him.

A warm and sincere smile. _'Because you're an idiot.'_

John. John. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohnjohn johnjohn…

John roars with laughter at the TV show plot. John, concentrating hard, taps away on his laptop. John offers him a cup of tea with a warm smile on his face. John sleeps, his head thrown back against the back of the couch. John laughs at Sherlock's joke. With wide, scared eyes, John examines his wound and grabs him by the shoulders, helping to seat him down. John, slouching in the armchair with half-closed eyes, listens to Sherlock playing his violin.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and immediately felt them starting to sting. It was because of the exhaustion. Naturally, it was because of the exhaustion. What else could it be?

The door to the room swung open, and John's physician appeared at the threshold. His knuckles white with the strain, Sherlock gripped the arms of the chair and gazed at the doctor in expectation. Right now he wouldn't, for the world of him, say anything about the doctor's habits, his family status, hobbies; and he couldn't say what was it that the doctor was going to say either. Moments of waiting seemed years.

"You may see Mr. Watson. He's stabilised, and we think he has good chances of full recovery."

Sherlock looked at the doctor with a wild gleam in his eyes, then let out an abrupt breath and licked his lips. The doctor gave him an encouraging smile.

It could seem like nothing had changed from his waiting outside and his waiting inside the ward, only the comfortable armchair was replaced with a plastic stool and half his face was covered with a smothering mask that hindered his breathing. But for Sherlock it presented a tremendous difference. Inside, he could hear the beeping of the cardio monitor, every new signal letting him know that John was alive. He could squeeze his friend's wrist and feel the warmth of his skin. He could look at the closed eyelids and imagine them flutter open, and imagine these familiar eyes gaze at Sherlock again. They would smile at him like only John smiled. But for now… for now Sherlock could wait. He could lean his head forward, clad in a blue hospital cap, and prop it against the white sheets, closing his eyes and relaxing his worn-out body, and he could hear the sound of the cardio monitor, better than music.

With a shudder, Sherlock opened his eyes. The room was already darkened, and his limbs grew stiff from the uncomfortable position he had been sitting in, his neck feeling almost leaden. Failing to hold back a quiet groan, Sherlock straightened his back and froze as soon as his eyes landed on John.

"Morning," John's voice was coarse and weak, but the blue eyes were not only smiling, they were practically laughing, looking at Sherlock with a warm expression.

"John." It was all he could get out, his head treacherously void of all the good words.

But John, just as always, had no need for verbal communication in order to understand his detective. Inclining towards the bed again, Sherlock pressed his face against John's wrist, hiding his watery eyes, which this time he could hardly explain away with a simple exhaustion.

* * *

FIN


End file.
